


No Right to Ask, No Reason to Give

by blueeyesandpie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Coda, Episode: s14e20 Moriah, It gets better sorta? Maybe., Love Confessions, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18642166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie
Summary: Existential dread totally pairs well with spontaneous love confessions. Right?





	No Right to Ask, No Reason to Give

**Author's Note:**

> While I do have a much more extended plot in mind for this coda, this can and probably should be read as a one shot because I'm freaking slammed and may not get a chance to write out what I'm thinking before it's irrelevant in the eyes of fandom. :P
> 
> As always, I deeply appreciate any thoughts or reactions you care to share!

Dean never had much faith in God even before he met the guy, so for a split second after Chuck’s declaration, he thinks he’ll be okay. He’s handled angels, demons, the Devil, Death, the Mark of Cain, the Darkness. He’s traveled to other universes and fridged an archangel in his own mind for weeks. If Chuck wants to add himself to the list of Completely Ridiculous Crap Dean Winchester Has Dealt With, then Dean can handle it.

He realizes how completely, irrevocably, _wrong_ he is the instant the sky turns black.

In that moment he understands that _thinking_ God doesn’t care, and _knowing_ that he’s actively out to get you are two very different things. His brain is biologically incapable of processing the idea, in fact; sparks flash at the edge of his vision and he wonders, with oddly detached clarity, if they’re the lights of hope or dying stars.

Thankfully Dean’s been dealing with this kind of shit too long to let a small thing like total system failure stop him from taking action. He doesn’t remember how he got there, but his fingers wrap around the rusted fence nearby and _yank._ He can’t hear what Cas is saying because his pulse is pounding in his ears louder than any concert bass, and has no idea what he says in response. He tosses a rusty iron stake to Sammy and crosses a second across his own chest as he braces for impact.

There are zombies in his face and decaying hands pushing and clawing for purchase on his arms and legs. The stench of brimstone and rot is so strong he wants to vomit, and it’s only growing stronger with each new stroke of God’s wrath. There’s fire and smoke and dust in the air, stones exploding with hollow thumps like bombs, and the scrabble of groping fingers on dirt and flesh sounds like overgrown spiders in the night. There is no sun, but it’s hotter than Alastair’s rack, so hot his sweat dries as soon as it appears and his skin threatens to crack with every small movement. 

It’s hell on Earth, everything they've given their lives to avoid. They fought Heaven and Hell and Leviathan and everything in between, lost friends and family, their futures, their sanity, their freedom. Every sacrifice they’ve ever made, every battle fought and won, all the pain and fear and death and sleepless nights, it all led to this point.

 _Lucifer was right_ , he thinks. _We were always going to end up here._

For the first time in his life, Dean considers giving up. Jack’s still form, protected on all sides by the men he considered his fathers, is proof they’re living the darkest of cosmic humor, and how can he hope to fight that? Chuck could burn them all out in a moment if he wanted to, but he hasn’t. The only conclusion Dean can draw is that God doesn't want them to die, he wants them to suffer. _He wants to see this._

For some reason, that thought rouses Dean. He scowls and kicks a zombie away, catches another upside the head, snaps another's frail arm with a twist of his hand, then sends it flying back against its fellows. “You sick, sadistic son of a _bitch_ ,” he spits at the sky. For all he knows Chuck is standing right next to him, but it seems appropriate, somehow, to direct his anger at the black void above. At least this time he _knows_ he won’t get a response. 

Wave after wave of mindless malevolence peaks and crashes against men and angel, only to get pushed back by their desperate blows. Dean barely registers the sickening _thunk_ of metal on flesh anymore, or the ghastly howls that fill the air. There’s a fire in his chest now, carrying heat to rival the hellish smoke they’re fighting through. It drives him on, keeps his arms swinging and his feet moving long past the point he should have fallen. He fights, and trusts his family, and waits for the blow that will end him for good.

It never comes.

A lifetime of combat later, Dean slams his fist across a zombie's face then turns, weapon raised, to find himself face to face with Castiel. The angel yanks his blade back just in time to avoid puncturing Dean’s throat and they stay like that, frozen in shock, for a solid count of three.

“Whoa there,” Dean pants finally, eyes wide. Cas flips the blade back up his sleeve without a word, then sinks to his knees next to Jack. He takes the boy’s hands in his own and Dean swallows against a painful lump in his throat as he looks away.

They’d circled to protect Jack as they fought, refusing to move no matter how the zombies pushed them. Now they’re surrounded by the dead, thrown into tall mounds by the sheer force of the fight. They’re pale and still as if they’d never moved now, but their beaten, broken bodies bear witness to what came before. It's gruesome and morbid, a nightmare he knows he won't wake from. Dean finds himself calculating how much lighter fluid it will take to burn them all, and gives up when he realizes they’d be better off raiding a gas station...assuming burning them would actually matter anymore.

“Maybe he got bored,” Sam pants, apropos of nothing. He’s doubled over and clutching at his chest with his right hand, gasping for breath even as he smiles through the pain. The dark stain on the plaid flannel has grown larger- much too large, in fact. Dean’s heart lurches of its own accord.

“Sammy.” He tosses the rod away and grabs at the other man, all the terror he’s been holding back bubbling to the surface in an uncontrollable flood. He tugs at his brother's shirt impatiently with one hand and digs his phone out of his pocket with the other. He's unspeakably relieved when the screen lights up. The flashlight shows him the wound is puffy and greenish-pale like it’s been sitting weeks without care, rather than a few minutes. Worse, Dean can see streaks of angry red running downward, growing perceptibly longer as he stares.  _Just a bullet,_ he tells himself, fighting the bile rising in his throat. _It’s just a bullet_. Except it isn’t and they both know it, and Dean has no idea what to do.

Sam shudders and slumps forward. “Tired,” he mutters into Dean’s shoulder. “Just gonna sleep a little bit, k? Just a little-”

“Sammy,” Dean says again, dropping his phone to hold Sam up like he had when they were kids. “Hold on, Sam.” Sam’s head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering shut.  Dean's brain stutters like a car with a faulty clutch. Sam's still breathing, but it's shallow and uneven, and his face is losing more color by the second. "No, no, no,” Dean pants. He lowers Sam to the ground, then kneels next to him at a loss. “Please, no. Please.” _I can’t lose you. Not after everything, not after_ this _. It can’t all be meaningless, it can’t. It_ can’t _._

Dean has no right to ask and Cas has no reason to give, but suddenly the angel is  _there_ , trench coat fanned behind him as he crouches to put two fingers on Sam's forehead. Dean's hand darts out to grip Cas's shoulder without thought, tugging his friend around to look at him. Dean’s not even sure what he means to say, but whatever it is the words die in his throat as their gazes meet.

The grief Dean sees in that ocean of blue is too great to fathom. There are tears dripping down his cheeks, too, and Dean exhales sharply at the sight. He’s seen Cas drunk, seen him confused, seen him angry, seen him high, seen him fallen, seen him die. He’s seen him a thousand different ways in the last ten years, but he’s never seen _this._

“I messed up.” The words are a whisper, but they have the force of a shouted prayer. “I’m sorry, Cas.” Remorse is bitter on his tongue. It’s not enough, and he knows it; there’s nothing he can do to make up for what he’s done. No way to undo it, even, not anymore.

Cas’s fingers cover Dean’s. He tries to pull away, but the angel's grip tightens, pinning him in place. Suddenly Dean is drowning in stormy seas and lightning, every hair on his body struggling to stand on end. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“He’s family,” Dean says. That’s not all of it, of course it isn’t. He remembers Jack saying _I’m a monster_ , remembers how he had rejected that statement against all logic and odds. Jack’s no monster, he’s just another kid Dean failed to protect. _Fuck._

“You could have had Mary back.”

“I don’t negotiate with monsters,” Dean snaps without thought. Then the fact that he just called _God_ a monster hits him and he rocks back on his heels, breathless and frightened by his own audacity.

Cas cocks an eyebrow, examining his face thoughtfully. “No, you never have,” the angel muses. “I suppose that’s why I love you, even when it hurts.” His attention shifts back to Sam as if he hadn’t just delivered a bomb greater than anything Chuck’s thrown at them so far. Dean stares at the angel in abject shock. _Cas?_

His confusion is interrupted by Sam coughing for air, chest heaving as he struggles to sit up. Cas pulls away and Dean’s hand drops to the ground. His palm tingles where it was pressed against Cas’s coat and he tries to ignore the sensation. It doesn’t mean anything, right?

“Never freaking do that again,” he snarls as Sam pushes himself up on his elbows. Anger is the only thing he dares to let through; anything else and he might crack and break, reduced to useless emotional ash. 

It takes a second but Sam tilts his chin up. His face is pale and dirty, but he’s alive, fuck he’s alive. “Pretty sure shooting God’s a one time event, jerk.” he says with a faint smile. Dean lets out a sharp bark of laughter, surprised at the sass despite himself.

“Bitch,” he says after a minute, and then it’s Sam’s turn to laugh.

“I couldn’t heal him fully,” Cas says. He sounds resigned. It occurs to Dean that this is far from the only time Cas's powers have been less than effective in recent months. It's hard to say whether it's Chuck's doing or Heaven's dwindling power, but at the moment he doesn't care. Regardless of the why, Cas is hurting and he hates it. “Sam will be very tired. You should get to the Bunker.” Cas turns toward Jack like that’s the end of it, and Dean’s heart stops.

“Come with us,” he breathes. “Cas, come home with us.”  

When Cas responds, his voice sounds tight and cold. “Do you need an angel or want a friend?”

"Neither!" Sam’s watching them, eyebrows lifted and lips pursed; Dean can almost see the gears turning in his head. 

Cas is very still suddenly, his back presented to them like a wall or a shield. "What do you want, Dean?"

Dean says the first thing that pops into his head, without considering the implications. “ _You._ I love you.”

He blinks as the words register in his ears. That isn’t at all what he meant to say and he’s suddenly terrified, jaw clenched and fingers twisting into his jeans as he waits for the pain. 

“Holy shit,” Sam says, rubbing at his temples as he looks between them in disbelief. “You actually said it. This really is the end.”

“Shut your freaking cakehole, Samuel,” Dean replies, and though he tries for big brother authority, he can’t keep the tremor from his voice. The silence afterward stretches so long Dean begins to wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake, however accidentally.

Cas turns eventually, however, and though tears still streak his face and he has Jack cradled in his arms like an overgrown child, there’s a light in his eyes like the freaking sun gone supernova.

“Take us home, Dean,” he says, “ _now._ ”


End file.
